Weaz is like: Whatever, today.
I feel the exact same way. Like I kind of want to quit my entire life and just disappear for a few months only to resurface in some other as-of-yet undetermined city donning a rotating collection of wigs and running a bakery/yoga studio.
The cats are like: If it involves being moved in a cat carrier, not a chance in hell.
Ralph being all: Whatchu talkin’ ’bout moving?
Anyway, speaking of wigs… I read this story in ELLE the other day about a writer who tested out different wigs to see how she was received: blonde, red, and pastel. With each change she experienced a very real shift in character–sometimes based on her own perception of how the hair made her feel and sometimes based on how other people treated her–and she put into words something I have never been able to verbalize about having distinguishing hair:
“If a woman’s hair has any equivalent in the male appearance, it’s probably the man’s suit. Both are measuring sticks of power and sex appeal… It was so undeniably petty. The upside of having cool hair is having cool hair. The downside is that your cool hair becomes an all-obstructing trait and the only thing that you are.”
Ralph is and forever will be a little black lion.
This is probably just because my hair has been an incredibly touchy subject the last five months, the story of which I will perhaps delve into at length in the near-ish future.
The point is it’s time to get the cats shaved again for springtime. Also a touchy subject for them. Arguably morse so. Stay tuned.
(Grumpiest cat-less Caturday ever.)